The Real Adventure eBook

He found his pocketbook and counted out a hundred
and twenty dollars, which he handed over to her.
She folded it and put it away in her wrist-bag.
The glow of her hadn’t faded, but once more it
was turned on something—­or some one—­else.
It wasn’t until he rose a little abruptly from
the marble bench, that she roused herself with a shake
of the head, arose too, and once more faced him.

“You’re right about our having to hurry,”
she said. “Don’t you suppose that
some of the department stores on the west side of State
Street would still be open—­on account of
Christmas, you know?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Very
likely. But look here!” He pulled out his
watch. “It’s after seven already.
And rehearsal’s at eight-thirty. You’ve
got to get some dinner, you know.”

“Dinner doesn’t take long at the place
where I go,” she reminded him. “But
if I can get one or two things now—­I don’t
mean the materials—­why, I can get a start
to-night after the rehearsal’s over.”

“I don’t like it,” he said glumly.
“Oh, I know, it’s a rush job and you’ll
have to work at it at all sorts of hours. If only
you ... If I could just ease up a bit on your
rehearsals! Only, you see, the sextette would
he lost without you. Look here! There’s
nothing life or death about this, you know. You
don’t want to forget that you’ve got a
limit, and crowd the late-at-night and early-in-the-morning
business too hard. Think where we’d be
if you turned up missing on the opening night!”

“I shan’t do that,” she said absently
almost, and not in his direction. Then, with
another little shake, bringing herself back to him
with a visible effort: “If you only knew
what a wonderful thing it’s going to be, to
have something for late at night and early in the morning
...”

Before he could find the first one of the words he
wanted, she had given him that curt farewell nod which,
so inexplicably, from the first had stirred and warmed
him, and turned away toward the door.

And she had never seen what was fairly shining in
his face; no more than she had heard the thing that
rang so eagerly in his voice through the thin disguise
of an impersonal, director-like concern that she shouldn’t
impair her health so far as to spoil her for the sextette!

CHAPTER VII

THE END OF A FIXED IDEA

She couldn’t of course have missed a thing as
plain as that but for a complete preoccupation of
thought and feeling that would have left her oblivious
to almost anything that could happen to her. Galbraith
himself had detected this preoccupation, but he would
have been staggered had he known its intensity.
He had likened it in his own thoughts, to an effect
that might have been caused by the presence with her
of another person whom he could neither see nor hear.
And that, had he believed it seriously, would have
been an almost uncannily correct guess.